


Twelve Hours

by brokenEisenglas



Series: The London Purge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Purge (2013)
Genre: Animalistic nature, Cult practice, Fear, Free-writing, Gen, Love, Occult, Other, Pre-meditation, The Purge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London's first Purge... A "success" in America, land of the free, home of the brave... Or, so they thought. For London's first Purge, Parliament looks favorably upon the new tradition. However, the whole of London rest on the precipice of fear and despair.</p>
<p>He has fought so hard for their safety. Look how London has paid him in kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Hours

**Author's Note:**

> I JUST finished watching The Purge for the first time... Whoa. Just, whoa. I never want that to happen. It cannot be healthy- in the long run. I won't make any arguments for short-term, but, in the end, everyone is in danger... And, the movie had so many cultural controversies "brought to light". If I am ever asked to write an essay on a film, this is it.  
> FYI: This is an idea fueled by my utter discomfort from watching this film. If you haven't seen it, I advise it. I hate sitting and watching movies... This one was worth it.

Originating in the newly re-founded United States of America, the Purge is a twelve hour period one night every year when law is nearly eradicated. All crimes, including murder, are permitted. Government officials (in London) of Parliament or higher are immune to Purge events. Violators of these terms will be persecuted, sentenced to violent death.

-0-0-0-

"We need a security system, Sherlock."

Three months ago, parliament made the announcement. The unanimous decision: adopt the Purge. American society began purging five years ago, the February that Mary was to give birth, and Jim Moriarty made his "great return."

"Sherlock," John's voice steadily rose. "Sherlock, are you listening to me? We need-"

"I KNOW, John!"

Fear is a strong motivator. Fear _is an emotional response induced by a perceived threat..._ *

_One month after the announcement, Mycroft visited Baker Street. His footsteps were slow, hesitant as he ascended the seventeen stairs. He stopped just outside the door._

_"If you are going to hover, Mycroft, at least do so where I can see you."_

_The elder Holmes sighed and nudged the door open with the tip of his umbrella. His eyes remained floor bound and his shoulders slightly slumped. His suit wrinkled from sitting and bags had made a home under his eyes._

_Sherlock knew at that moment: all was lost._

_Moving his umbrella aside, Mycroft lowered himself into Doctor Watson's garish chair with great trepidation. When he finally looked to his younger sibling, the message was clear._

_"I will_ not _let you be harmed."_

In less than twelve hours, London's first Purge would begin. Not enough time for security installations. Not enough time for much more than stocking food or fleeing before the railways and cabs are suspended.

_At least_ , Sherlock thinks, _there won't be killer cabbies._

The thought is only a minor pro in an abundance of cons.

"I know, John." His voice is little more than a whisper. The silence that swallows them aches in his heart.

_With them close, they will surely die_ , he thinks.

_That night, two months ago, the brothers planned. They planned and planned and planned some more._

_Mycroft could not be harmed, and his home could not be targeted, but they could not visit by happenstance on the night of this "celebratory event."_

_"It is_ not _proven to be 'successful,'" he growled under his breath. His brother only looked on in remorse. "This is not... science."_

_The pain in his voice seeped through, and the night ruined. They decided, four hours before the Purge, safety would be secured. Not everyone could be saved, this they knew, and to try would be to disobey the law._

In less than twelve hours, the opportunity would arise and he, Sherlock Holmes, would become a living, breathing, and running target.

-0-0-0-

The Baker Street flat progressively became more and more tense as the hours passed. Neighbors and strangers roamed everywhere. The homeless went into hiding, the poor armed for retaliation. If this Purge is successful, the event will become a yearly holiday. This, Sherlock thinks, is not acceptable.

"Have you packed a bag?" His voice startles his friend.

John looks to Sherlock, sitting in his leather chair, hands folded under his chin, wearing nothing but robe and sweats. Their boundaries were falling, John felt. Looking at Sherlock now, he knows there is so much more between them, so much that he has denied since only a few weeks after meeting. Does Sherlock feel it, too? Does he know?

"Why am I packing a bag?" John does not miss the slight flinch his friend tries desperately to hide. They had this discussion only a week or so ago.

_John stood at the oven, watching the timer count down. Behind him, Sherlock sat at the table, his eyes boring into the back of John's sandy hair. This was unacceptable._

_"And, where will you be, huh?"_

_Sherlock sighed heavily, knowing full well that his friend would fight to the very end._

_"Where, Sherlock, will you be? Because," John's hand flexed at his side, and a fire flickered deep in his soul._

_"John..."_

_Slamming his hand down, "NO! I will NOT watch them tear you apart! I will NOT turn on the telly only to see 'Sherlock Holmes: Genius Detective Killed in London's First Purge by Thirty-' Just... no. If I have to hide, then, so do you. If you won't come with me, then, I won't go."_

"Please, John." Sherlock's head drops, eyes cast to the floor. "Please," he begs.

The timer goes off, and John ignores the plea.

The two of us against the world.

-0-0-0-

[Mycroft: Car is on its way. Be sure to have supplies. -MH]

[Sherlock: He won't go. -SH]

[Mycroft: Then, I guess you will both be staying.

[Mycroft: Bring your gloves. I fear the equipment may not be enough. -MH]

[Sherlock: ... I haven't... Brother, I haven't fought in years.]

[Mycroft: Your insecurities are showing, Little Brother. Tell John to bring his and his wife's gun. -MH]

-0-0-0-

Bag slung over his shoulder, Sherlock hovers in the doorway between kitchen and living room. John, sensing his presence, turns in his chair. His eyebrows raise, and he pulls the strap of his bag up from in front of him. Three hours and thirty minutes to go. The drive to Mycroft's estate home is about two hours long. Fortunately, with his personal vehicles, they won't be forbidden to travel.

No public transportation is in service.

"About ready?" John asks, voice falsely cheery. "Mrs. Hudson is out of the country and Greg hasn't responded. Sure Molly won't go with us?"

Sherlock nods lightly; his eyes are dark and, dare John say, lost.

"Molly says she will stick out the worst of it in her apartment... Tom and she are back together."

Both men know this to be a false hope, her safety.

"Well, then," John huffs, "best to be off now."

-0-0-0-

The crowd on Baker Street is... frighteningly thick. The detective refuses to analyze, to deduce. He knows why many of them are there. He knows and he is afraid.

_"'There are two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When we are afraid, we pull back from life. When we are in love, we open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement, and acceptance...'"_

_John stopped in the hallway, hand rested on the bathroom handle. "Isn't that Lennon?"_

_Sherlock hummed in response. He leaned against the wall of the kitchen. His eyes watched John in his periphery._

_"Why are you quoting Lennon? You hate the Beatles... Well, you hate anything that isn't orchestral or, or, what is it?"_

_"Dub-step."_

_"Yes, that." John gave his half smile, the one reserved for moments of inner reflection. "So, why Lennon?" Although, he had his suspicions._

_Breathing out slowly, the soldier stood to attention as his friend approached. One long-fingered hand lifted and smoothed the skin at his jaw. The sensation was... revealing. Eyes like the galaxies remained lowered, framed by dark lashes. Cupid bow lips, pouting and pitiful, so close..._

_Calloused._

_The kiss was unexpected but not unwelcome. Elation, well... John could never have felt more elated than this moment. Years, so many years, he has waited and they have lost. So much time wasted._

_"Because, you love the Beatles."_

_-Because, you are my life._

The rage of the crowd as the car drove through intensified with each foot gained.

If they could help it, the crowd of Baker Street would not permit his and John's departure.

True fear is felt when that which one values most is endangered. Fear is what he felt now. "I need you to trust me, John," he licks his lips. "I need you to believe that all will be okay."

The soldier in John prepares for battle while the friend wants to cry. He knows. They won't make it away from the city. They will both, more than likely, die tonight.

"I need you to stay safe, John."

Burning with turmoil, John nearly misses the meaning hidden beneath the layers of those seven simple words. He nearly misses the purposeful inflection. Before Sherlock's hand can even touch the handle, John has him restrained and pulled as close as possible in the back of one of Mycroft's cars.

"I will, personally, string you up and then tear you apart when this is over. Right now," the captain speaks, "you and I, _we_ , are leaving central London, and _we_ are going to be safe. Do you understand?"

Surprise is written all over the detective's body, in every muscle and visible vein.

"Yes, sir."

-0-0-0-

[Mycroft: Where are you? -MH]

[Sherlock: Aren't you tracking us? -SH]

[Mycroft: Yes. Of course. But, where. Are. You.]

[Sherlock: Thirty minutes out.

[Sherlock: Three vehicles following. All over-full and armed.

[Sherlock: Forty-minutes. Another pick-up has joined...]

"Dammit."

-0-0-0-

"Where's your gun?"

Sherlock looks up to meet John's eyes. _Does he know how beautiful they are? Like the open skies above the Swiss Alps, or like..._

"Sherlock!" John snaps his fingers in front of his best friend's face. "Listen to me. Where is your gun?"

The younger man looks around helplessly, momentarily forgetting the location of his weapon. "With yours. I'm using Mary's."

He does not miss the quiet gasp, nor does he ignore the increased breathing rate. John is panicking.

"Stay with me, John. What-"

"Her gun isn't functional. I," he swallows quickly, "I told that last night. I told you, I said- oh, god..."

Sherlock grabs John's hand, raises it to his lips, and places and gentle kiss upon it. He hums lowly, having learned this slight comfort many years ago, those particular years.

-0-0-0-

[Lestrade: Where are you?]

[John: On our way to Mycroft's. Where the bloody hell did you choose to stay? -JW]

[Lestrade: ... Hurry. Please. We can't wait much longer.]

-0-0-0-

As the car enters the gates, Mycroft releases the breath he did not realize he had been holding. Anthea stands at his side, relentlessly texting. She acknowledges her boss's sibling's arrival. Behind her, Lestrade nudges her aside to stand next to the government official.

"We are safe, Myc." The inspector scans the grounds as the vehicle makes its slow approach.The flat tires do nothing to aid in its approach. Twenty minutes until the Purge. "They are safe."

Mycroft, while able to admit his brother's arrival has eased his heart, is unable to calm this rising fear.

"I hope so."


End file.
